


End of Side A, Please Turn Over

by Kasuchi



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/M, From Sex to Love, Future Fic, Hotel Sex, No Spoilers, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Jake says, "I think she might be the one," all casually, and right then you want to die.</em> Jake and Amy and a love story in the wrong order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of Side A, Please Turn Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithers/gifts).



> Well, it's _supposed_ to go "meet, date, fall in love, have sex, break up" traditionally, but you know. Sometimes life doesn't work that way. Starts about a year ahead of current continuity and then jumps forward.
> 
> Those of you who have read [This Isn't a Nora Ephron Movie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/549774) will notice some similarities, mostly in themes and ideas. The two stories aren't the same, but I realized when I was about half-done with this that there's some echoes of that story here. It's hard to avoid; New York stories are cyclical, I think. 
> 
> For **blithers** , whose beta work has always been incredible and whose opinion I value deeply. Thank you for all you've done -- I know you saw the first couple paragraphs, but I hope you like the finished work!
> 
> Last but not least, thanks to **galfridian** and **40millionyears** for the beta work, cheering, and comments on the rough draft. 
> 
> No spoilers for anything after 2x11 Stakeout.

**the break up**

Jake says, "I think she might be the one," all casually, though the way his hands shake give him away. You're on stakeout, which makes it worse, somehow, because there's no escaping this. It feels like you've been stabbed in the throat and punched in the gut at the same time. (Okay, that's never _actually_ happened to you, but that's what this would be like if it had.) 

"Oh," you say. And then, sweet merciful crap, you must have earned some good mojo from the universe for holding it together because you're spared from answering his 2 AM confession by the sudden arrival of the perp you two are staking out. "There's our guy," you declare, and you both hustle out of the car, and there is no more talk of anyone being "the one" of any kind, except _the one dirtbag_ you've been looking for. 

Two weeks later, you turn in your transfer request to Major Crimes. They've made you a much better offer this time, now that you've been on the force two years longer and with a string of good, solid cases and convictions behind you with a veritable mountain of paperwork to back up your solves. You've grown, and the transfer request is bittersweet but necessary. 

You tell Jake first because you owe him that much. You ask him if he's got a second, and then you both go to the evidence lockup. You glance at the camera, when you walk in, curious what the civilian stuck monitoring the police precinct (there's some irony there) thinks of all this. 

"I wanted to tell you something," you say, and you twist your hands together in front of you. "I'm transferring," you blurt in a rush, because his expression is this unexpected mix of elation and discomfort and you've got to burst the bubble before things get messier. "Major Crimes offered me a job as a detective on their squad. I'm gonna take it." 

You're not sure how you expected him to take it, maybe anger like the last time, but instead he beams and hugs you unexpectedly, your hands trapped between your chest and his. "That's amazing!" His hands are on your shoulders and he's arm's length away and it feel both too close and too far. "When do you go?" 

"I turned in my transfer this morning." Your voice is steady, but every nerve ending is focused on his hands on your arms, and _this_ is at least 30% of the reason you're leaving. Yeah, it's a good career move for you, but there's also _this_ , because it's slowly killing you, and you don't get to leave for six months to get away from it, so you're just going to transfer and be done with it. 

"Have you told the others?"

You shake your head. "Sarge said to wait until Captain Holt approves my transfer." 

"He will. Of course he's gonna! It's such a good move for you." He pulls back, and you miss him already.

Two weeks later, everyone's at the bar toasting you and telling stories about that time you took down that one perp with a baton to the knee, or the other time you found twenty kilos of cocaine, or various other solves. As the drinks keep going, stories about your gaffes and your missteps also surface, but the tone is loving and friendly.

You stay on the edge of pleasantly buzzed all night, nursing scotch just enough to keep that going. You're leaning against the bar, watching as Scully and Hitchcock nod off on top of each other, Gina harasses Boyle, and Rosa and some of the patrol cops and guys from Vice start some kind of drinking game based on darts and the others' antics. 

Jake slides up next to you. "Hey, you," he says with an easy smile, and taps his beer bottle -- good old Brooklyn Lager, that standard -- against your glass. 

You take a sip, because tradition. "Hey, yourself. Where's your other half?" 

He shrugs, loose with alcohol, and you feel that unnecessary fondness burst in your chest, like a flower blooming in time-lapse photography. "She's at work, busy, you know. Being a lawyer." You're both quiet for a long moment, and you think that maybe this, these easy comfortable silences, are what you're going to miss most of all. "Not gonna lie," he says slowly, swirling the bottle around and watching the beer slosh inside. "I'm kind of jealous." 

You tip your head forward and laugh a little, the déjà vu suddenly everywhere. "I can get you transferred if you want. I'm really good at the paperwork." 

He grins, and it makes him look so young very suddenly. You look at each other a beat too long, and you think, _Oh, this is it._

You set the glass on the bar and pick up your purse, holding it in front of you even as it hangs from your shoulder, the strap taut. "Look, I-I don't wanna be a jerk," you say, the words coming out halting, and his eyes go wide, because _hello_. "I know you're with Sophia and it's going really well, It's just…." You swallow, and he opens his mouth, his lips and teeth and tongue forming the words, "Don't," you can tell. You shake your head. "I kinda wish something could have happened between us. Romantic stylez." Your knees are shaking, the fake leather of your bag is creaking, and the bar seems loud and quiet at the same time. Jake is looking at you like the ground is being pulled out from under him, and you're perhaps too familiar with that feeling. 

"And I know it can't, 'cause you're with Sophia, and I'm--" 

Rosa and the others cheer, and whatever strange, unexpected tension is between the two of you snaps, and your nerve is gone. You've never felt this uncertain before, but it was time. 

"It's late," you say slowly, not quite meeting his eyes, your gaze on his throat. "The Mayor needs me," you add, trying to smile, but it doesn't stick. You meet his eyes for a fleeting moment. "Bye," you murmur, and turn away to say goodbyes to the remaining crew. 

You're pretty sure he watches you the entire time, maybe tries to touch your arm as you move past him, but you can't be sure, as you don't turn back to look at him once.

It's the last time you see him for three years: he's holding a beer bottle in slack fingers and watching you lay your heart on the line with his words. 

It's a hell of a story. You could have lived with that ending.

**the meet-cute**

You keep up with all of them, a little bit. Sarge and Rosa (who sits for her sergeant's exam eighteen months before you do, not long after you leave) send messages on occasion. You're visiting your newest niece when you hear Sarge was promoted to lieutenant. Despite all efforts, you cannot unfriend Gina from Facebook, and through her you get snapshots into the others' lives. Gina and Boyle apparently un-date for a year before making it social media official. Holt and Kevin adopt a new dog. Lives continue, you simply aren't in the photos with them. 

The Major Crimes squad is tough but fair. You don't condone The Vulture's tactics -- Holt and Terry and Rosa mentored you better than that anyway -- but the nature of the squad is that you're gonna step on some toes. You figure out how to take over a case without alienating the cops who did good work, and you're careful to make sure the right superiors know who should get credit for what. It wins you a surprising amount of respect, and your solve rate hovers around 70% -- better than the national average by a full standard deviation. 

You are good, and you've only gotten better. 

About a year after you leave, you see Gina link to a tweet of hers, Sophia and Jake in an embrace, Sophia holding out her left hand. It's a beautiful, understated ring in a vintage setting, undoubtedly an heirloom, and you feel a strange sensation, like you're being wrung out. 

_Enough_ , you think. _That's enough now._

You gain the rank of Detective Sergeant, and the entire squad goes out for drinks. You pose with your shoulder forward at the shitty dive bar in Little Italy that the squad likes, three fingers splayed on your arm, indicating your triple chevrons for your new rank. That photo you save on your phone and make your profile picture.

You hear through the grapevine (Pembroke won't stop bitching about it, in reality) that the FBI made Jake an offer and he took it. You realize you're both working a few blocks away from each other and wonder if you'll ever run into him. Six months pass and you never do, and the thought fades. 

You date, of course you date. There's a few guys who weren't serious, and a couple of guys who could have been, and maybe one or two who almost were. You find faults with each of them, but the truth is you have other priorities in your life -- like this police conference in DC, the one the FBI invited you and a couple other NYPD detectives to. It's no coincidence that the other two invited with you have the highest solve rates in their squads. You're leading in homicides, while Kilpatrick is from Auto, and Chang is from Vice. 

Your room is small but tidy, and the window is a nothing-special view of short brownstones and, further out, pre-fab homes just barely visible beyond a tree line. The conference will last two days, and you debated even going, but the invite was personal and it could be a great learning experience. There's only so much continuing education available to you. 

The other two are on different tracks, so you expect to see them at breakfast (coffee, if you're being honest) and in passing from session to session. 

You're half-right -- you barely see them on the first day, and you only manage to wave at them during the second day's breakfast, because you're basically going from session to session as fast as your feet can take you. There's _so much_ to learn, and you haven't felt this keyed up since you were studying for the sergeant's exam. 

You're reading the schedule for your track, trying to figure out where the hell Classroom 1A24 is when you bump bodily into someone while turning a corner around a display. It's a decidedly male someone, given his chest and the _oof_ sound he makes as you both ricochet back. 

"Oh my god, I'm so--" you're mid-apology when it registers exactly who's dusting himself off and straightening his suit. "Jake," you say, and your mouth goes dry. 

He grins at you, hands braced on his hips and feet shoulder-width apart. "I hoped I'd bump into you." His expression shifts into something almost wry. "Though maybe not so literally?" 

You can't help but smile at that. "You okay? I ran into you at full speed." 

"Santiago style," he jokes. "Where are you headed?" 

"1A24, but I can't find it on the map." 

"I'm headed that way, too. C'mon, I'll walk you." 

And that's how Jake walks with you all the way across the convention center, making small talk about what you've attended and if you've ever been to DC before. It's so normal, like there isn't a three-year time gap between you, that you forget to be on guard. 

Which is how, when he asks you, "Hey, how about we get a drink at the hotel bar tonight? Catch up?" you agree before you can talk yourself out of it, and he grins that big, dopey smile of his, and says, "Awesome. Meet you at 7:30?"

"Eight," you reply automatically, then point to your itinerary a beat too late. "I've got, um." 

"Yes, 'um' sounds very important," Jake teases, still smiling. "Eight. I'll see you then." 

Which is how, five hours later, you're rifling through your suitcase trying to find an outfit you don't hate. You pull up the sheath dress, a mauve that flatters your coloring, and hold it up. You'd brought it just in case of a cocktail hour or something, but it's a touch too dressy for the networking thing planned for tonight. Then again, Jake wore a suit to the conference, and the hotel bar is nicer than it should be -- you should know, you checked it out when you first arrived, hoping to bump into your compatriots -- so you're torn. 

You wear the dress. He's already at the bar when you arrive, suit jacket draped over the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up. You get one moment to take him in before he sees you and waves you over.

His hair is still short, trimmed and styled into a slight peak. His white shirt is tight across his shoulders -- but also against his abdomen. His tie is absent, and where his slacks ride up you see he's wearing emoji-print socks. You note a few lines around his eyes and mouth that weren't there a few years ago.

He looks three years older, and you wonder how you must look to him. 

The first drink is all the small talk -- how the conference is going, what talks and workshops you've attended, the usual conference white noise chatter. Jake is apparently attending to scope out one of the speakers for an FBI offer, and the surprise must register on your face because he smirks at you and puffs up, saying, "Yeah, Santiago, I'm kind of a big deal," which makes you laugh into your Distrito Federal. 

The second drink is when you raise your glass to him. "Congratulations on joining the feds, by the way." 

He touches his beer bottle to your glass. "And to you, on earning your stripes." 

"Chevrons, technically," you say, trying to keep it casual.

"There she is," he exclaims, and points at you, clearly not buying your casual vibe.

"What?" You frown and push your hair back. 

"That's the Amy Santiago I remember. You _would_ call them chevrons."

"That's what they're called," you grumble into your drink. 

"What? Don't be mad, I missed that about you while I was still at the Nine-Nine. No one else knew what random stuff was called. Rosa will just call stuff she doesn't know the name of, 'Exhibit A' or, if pressed, 'that thing over there'." He manages air quotes around the bottle in his hand, which you almost find impressive. "Gina would shrug and says it's not her problem so she doesn't care, and Charles is terrible at Google." Jake frowns. "Though weirdly great at the Calendar?" 

You laugh at that, because the Nine-Nine is always going to be that crazy cast of characters, no matter how much time passes. 

The third drink is when the two of you talk through Boyle and GIna and their weird relationship. Jake shakes his head and drinks faster. "My best friend and basically-sister? It's just weird sometimes. And then they ask me for advice about each other and just, I can't." 

You nod. "They overshare about their relationship with you all the time, huh?"

Jake shudders and finishes off his drink. You silently push yours towards him. "Boyle's default mode is oversharing, and Gina will be too honest if it suits her. Both of those things together is terrifying." 

"Let's hope they never have kids," you comment mildly, remembering the time you and Jake walked in on Gina and Boyle making out in wolf robes. 

"Oh god," Jake mutters, and knocks back the remaining contents of your glass while signalling for another round.

The fifth drink is when you feel brave enough to say the thing you've been thinking all night. "How's Sophia?" 

Jake blinks at you slowly for a moment and then folds his arms on the bar. He blows out a long breath. "I hear she's okay." 

You set down your drink. "I thought you two were--" 

"Engaged? Yeah." He shrugs and picks at the label on the bottle, not looking at you. "Sometimes things don't work out, you know?"

You nod. "You just..." You pause, take a fortifying sip, and try again. "You said she was 'the one,' you know? It seemed serious." 

He looks at you, then, a sideways tilt of his head that catches the shadows in the light of the hotel bar. "So was Teddy, right?" 

"Touché," you murmur, and look away. 

"Was that why you left? Me and Sophia?" 

You trace the rim of your glass with a finger. Your knees press against his -- when did you two move so close together? "A little." You shake your head. "Mostly it was time. As much as I liked the Nine-Nine, I needed... _more_. Something else." You shake your head and smile to yourself. "Ambition is a hell of a thing." Your eyes flick to him. "Was the FBI why you and Sophia called off the wedding?" 

He laughs humorlessly. "That and the part where we both realized we thought of the other's job as garbage." He took a long swig. "It's funny how quickly things go sour when you finally talk about work." 

"Or when all you have to talk about is work," you retort.

"Yeah, that too." He shakes his head. You turn your attention back to your glass. Your fingernail traces the grain of the wood of the bar. "So, I'm back to being single. The Feds keep me busy, you know." You hear him take a drink. There's a long measure of silence.

"God, we have terrible timing," you hear him say at last, forcing a laugh. 

Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the fact that it's 1:30 in the morning, or maybe it's because it's _Jake_ , the cliche of him being 'the one that got away' or maybe simply never was. The words spill out before you can overthink them, before you can "Santiago Style" the situation. "We don't have to," you blurt out. "Have bad timing, I mean." You pause, meeting his eyes. "I'm not seeing anyone, either." 

He goes still. "Amy," he says, voice low. 

You swallow the last of your drink. "Come up with me." 

He searches your face for a long beat, then nods and grabs his jacket. He tells the bartender, "I'm 258, she's…" He trails off at and looks at you. 

"497," you say. The bartender nods, and you take Jake's hand, and walk him to the elevator. You wait in silence for the car to descend, for the doors to open, for the doors to close again. The moment the car moves, Jake is in your space, pushing you against the railing and the mirrored wall, kissing you with his entire body, fingers in your hair and tongue in your mouth. You moan -- it echoes in the silence -- and you push your hands under the suit jacket, up against the skin-warmed white shirt, nails scraping for purchase against the cotton pulled tight across his back. 

The bell dings and the two of you practically jog to your door. He's half-unbuttoned and your dress is almost unzipped by the time the green light on your door lock flashes. The two of you stumble into your hotel room, lit by a single lamp that you left on for yourself, and tear off each others' clothes, tossing them aside and letting them fall where they do. He pushes you back onto the bed and crawls over you, clad in boxers that are sporting an enticing tent, and your bra is hanging off the edge of the desk chair. 

"Whoever has the most orgams buys the other breakfast," Jake declares, a mischievous light in his eyes that you don't trust. 

"Jake," you chide. "Come on, that's not fa--" You're cut off by the feeling of him pushing two fingers inside of you and curling them, thumb flicking your clit. "Fuck," you groan quietly, drawing out the syllable. 

"Someone's got a dirty mouth," Jake comments wryly, thrusting his hand harder against you. 

"Seven brothers, remember?" you retort sardonically. You eat your words when he pulls his hand away and replaces it with his mouth. 

He wins, of course, bringing you to orgasm four times while you only manage twice with him. He stays the night, pulling you close after your frantic, almost desperate lovemaking, and presses kisses to your neck and shoulders. In the morning, you climb on top of him and ride him until both of you are sated. 

You are sprawled out on top of him, trying to catch your breath, when he says, "Extend your stay." 

You prop up your chin on his chest. "What?" 

"Spend the weekend with me. I already have my hotel room until Monday." He drags the tips of his fingers up your spine. "I don't want you to go yet." 

You sit up and push your hair back, letting it fall around your shoulders and not feeling self-conscious about your state of undress. You catch Jake's eyes flick down to your breasts before returning to your face. "I'll think about it," you say, and slide out of bed. 

You take a shower after he leaves, feeling the spray sting where his fingers had pressed into your skin, where the size of him had stretched you. Your shower lasts 20 minutes longer than normal, but you're pink and clean when it's done.

You pack, carefully placing your clothes in your bag and checking drawers and shelves for things left behind. You zip the case closed and look at your cell phone in your hand. 

You make the call.

The train ticket reschedules easily, and your captain approves the extra time off. It's just past dinner time when you text him. _I'm coming up after I check out._

_#258_ is his entire reply, but your knees start to shake.

You bring your suitcase into his room after you check out, the handles squeaking as you walk down the hotel hallway, all the way to 258. You never saw this outcome, sure, but now you're standing in front of his hotel door, and you know what's on the other side. 

(A hotel room that's rock star messy, possibly candy everywhere, and Jake.) 

You can feel your nerve starting to waver when the door opens and there he is, dressed in jeans that are faded at the knees and a gray FBI t-shirt. 

"Hey," you say, because what else can you? 

"Hey yourself," he replies, and takes the handle of your bag from your hands, lifting it inside. You linger on the threshold, on the edge of the room. You aren't scared so much as overwhelmed. 

He turns back around and sees you standing at the entryway, one hand keeping the heavy hotel door open. It's gross how right he looks in the space, how casually he has tucked your carpetbag into the closet. He straightens and holds out a hand. "Come here," he says, voice rough. The only thing standing in the way is yourself, and you've never let a little thing like that get between you and what you want. 

You swallow around your nerves and step inside. The door slams shut behind you.

**the sex**

You end up spending the entire weekend in that hotel room with him. When you think about the weekend later, it will be in flashes, in moments that will stick with you for a long time. 

You remember: The two of you are up until the small hours of Saturday morning exploring each other, taking your time because you have plenty of it, a whole weekend's worth. You savor the feeling of him, the scratch of his stubble, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the sweaty slickness of his skin, the wiry hairs on his chest. 

You remember: All you want is _more_. You hook a leg around his hip and try to pull him deeper and harder into you. Somehow, all of him doesn't feel like _enough_. 

You remember: You blink blearily into the midmorning light as you awake. The bed is warm and there's the heavy weight of his arm across your waist, his fingers slotted between your ribs. You can feel the press of his nose and brow against that space between your shoulder blades. 

You don't know how long you lie there, watching the shadows change, but you know when he's awake because his breathing changes. You feel him shift behind you, register the hot, wet kiss he presses to your skin, and you say, "I thought I was supposed to be the big spoon." 

You feel him laugh, the way his breath catches and his chest vibrates, and wish you could somehow preserve this moment. 

You remember: You shower together. He soaps up your back and you return the favor by blowing him, enjoying the way his voice sounds in the glass and tile enclosure as he comes. 

When he recovers, he pulls you to your feet and kisses you under the spray, mouth hot and sweet, tongue unhesitating as it pushes into your mouth. He pulls back and looks at you, taking you in. You can imagine what you look like, hair plastered to your scalp and shoulders, gleaming from the water, lips swollen. He has water droplets on his eyelashes and eyebrows, and his expression is too-serious until it shifts into something goofier.

You remember: he kneels between your knees and eats you out, the hotel robe falling open indecently as he pushes you back onto the bed. You smack Jake in the shoulder when he gives you that superior, self-satisfied look after you come back to yourself.

You remember: ordering room service, him in boxers and you in his gray tee and your panties, as you sit on the floor at the foot of the bed, SportsCenter playing in the background just for noise. Your damp hair is settling into waves around your shoulders, and he is clean-shaven but his hair is still in disarray. ESPN's running through Top 10 plays when you, without thinking, steal one of his curly fries. He then takes a bite of your burger and you lick the mustard from the corner of his mouth. (After all, you know where it's been.)

You remember: He regales you with stories from the Nine-Nine after you left, of hijinks and Jimmy Jab Games and the particular brand of crazy that seems to follow Jake around in his life -- or maybe that's just Charles. 

You are lying on your side and he is sprawled out on his back, gesturing and emoting as he tells the stories. He's got voices for everyone, which you should have suspected. His dead-on Gina impression is making you laugh too hard too care that it's making your nose crinkle in that way you think makes you look stupid.

When you catch your breath, you tap your fingers on the coverlet. "Sounds like things didn't really change," you say, and there's a touch of wistfulness in your voice. 

He props up on an elbow and tips your head up so that your gaze meets his. "No," he says, and his expression is too-serious. "A lot of things changed." 

You remember: You call him _Special Agent Peralta_ in your best seductive voice, and you feel his entire body react. You see his expression turn heated as he calls you _Detective Sergeant Santiago_ in turn, voice dark and warm and filled with promise. 

You remember: he rips open the condom packet with his teeth (which is hot) and then immediately makes a face when he tastes the lube (which is not hot). The grossed-out expression of his makes you laugh so hard that the mood is ruined, and all efforts to calm you down result in you laughing harder. Eventually, he gives up and, instead, runs his hands over your skin until you've caught your breath. 

"I won't be doing that again," he remarks, voice sardonic. 

You let out an hysterical giggle. "It was pretty hot, though," you return. 

"You think I'm hot, Santiago?" 

"Shut up." 

You remember: He feels _so good_. You savor the hot, hard feeling of him inside of you, the way his hips thrust against yours, and the wet press of his mouth on your neck as he fucks you senseless. It all comes back around, and the slick slide of him in and out is pure, pleasurable sensation. You're overstimulated, but he finds your g-spot anyway, and you come apart with a cry when he thumbs your clit and pulls your legs apart further, driving hard into you. 

After you catch your breath and return to yourself, the two of you make out like teenagers, wet and ardent. He has most of his weight on you, though he's braced on his forearms. You run your hands up his arms, wrap them around his neck. Eventually, you can feel his muscles shaking from the exertion, and you break the kiss and smile and flip over so that you're straddling his hips, your hair falling forward across your shoulders. 

He licks his lips, which are dark and kiss-swollen, and runs his hands up your arms, over your shoulders. One hand curls into the nape of your neck and you feel him pull you into his embrace, the seam of his lips parting for your tongue. 

Your hands are in his hair, threaded in the short strands, and you feel the low noises he's making vibrate into your chest. You break the kiss and smile sheepishly. "I need a power nap or something," and he laughs underneath you, his abdomen and half-hard cock brushing against your stomach. His hands push your hair over one shoulder and then pull you flush against his chest, your ear pressed to Jake's heart, steady and loud. 

You fall asleep tangled around one another, and when you wake, you're the big spoon and he has pulled the duvet over the both of you. You gently trace the lines of his back with the tip of your finger and drift back to sleep while listening to his breathing.

You remember: In the early, gray light of Monday morning, you pull yourself out of his bed and dress quietly, finger-combing your hair before rolling it into a bun and tucking the end underneath. You run your hand along his cheek and smooth down his hair and trace the seam of his lips and the dimple in his chin. 

You don't want to go.

You know you have to, and eventually your reason wins. You exit the room, carpetbag in tow, as silently as possible. You don't remember to leave a note until you're in the taxi on the way to the airport, and texting him at that point seems wrong, so you don't. 

You tell yourself it doesn't bother you. After a couple of days, you almost believe it. 

**the dating**

Two weeks later, you walk into the squadroom and one of the newer transferees, a wiry young man who swears he's thirty but looks eighteen, tells you there's someone from the FBI there to speak with you, and they put him in the briefing room for you. 

Your stomach twists as you hope against your own better judgment that it is _him_. You enter quietly, and he's standing there in his cheap black suit, the back fanned out because he's got his hands in his pockets, but you would recognize the line of his back anywhere, even hidden under cheap poly-cotton. How could you forget it? You traced it with fingers and lips and tongue. If you close your eyes, you can picture the moles on his back, three of them spread like Orion's belt between his shoulder blades. 

You swallow and deliberately make some noise as you shut the door. You set down some files and brace your hands on your hips. "Agent Peralta," you greet, ignoring the zing that runs through you when you say those words. "To what do I owe this pleasure? 

He turns halfway towards you. "I never thought One PP would have this good a view." 

"It's the only decent view on the floor," you admit. Outside of the window is the Brooklyn Bridge, extending up and out into the distance. 

It's quiet in the room for a long moment, not tense or awkward or anything except quiet. A Jake who doesn't fill the silence with inane chatter is a weird one -- you've been on stakeout with him enough to know that's not his style. Hell, you spent two days with him and you're pretty sure the two of you never stopped talking. 

"What are you doing here, Jake?" you ask at last, suddenly itching for a cigarette. 

He turns to face you fully, grinning that giant, dopey smile of his, the one that makes him look like a rookie. Well, okay, fine, at least ten years younger than he is. "The Bureau -- man, that never stops being cool to say -- wants to work with Major Crimes on a case." The smile gradually falls off his face. "And I wanted to see you again." 

Your breath catches and it's like in the car, all those years ago, when he so casually told you Sophia was The One. Hadn't Jake learned that he just couldn't _say_ stuff like that?

"You can't just _say_ stuff like that," you blurt out. "That's--it's--" 

"I know, it was such a great line, right?" He beams again, head tilting back slightly, almost as if from the force of his smile. "So, you guys gonna help or what?" 

"Shouldn't you be asking the Captain? Or the Assistant Chief?" You are already ready to roll your eyes and assume Jake hasn't followed proper protocol, but he surprises you by reaching into his jacket and pulling out a (relatively) neat sheaf of papers, the corners only slightly dog-eared. 

"All cleared. It's your squad I want, Sergeant Santiago." He holds out his hand, the papers in them, and his grin is tempered slightly, into something a little more heartfelt. That zing runs through you once more. "We'll be partners again." 

Well. How can you say no to that? 

The case is well within your wheelhouse: someone is systematically robbing armored cars, which matches a series of robberies going south from Connecticut to Jersey City, and now New York. 

It's three weeks of good work -- work that you know how to do and which feels all the more familiar for Jake being beside you as you comb through paperwork and video footage and witness statements. Your team puts in a lot of time and energy, too, and the perps -- ex-military guys working for a competing armored truck servicing fleet -- are taken into federal custody when all is said and done. To celebrate, the feds take your squad out for drinks, and it quickly devolves into your team trying to talk the bartender into turning one of the TVs into a karaoke screen while the federal agents, standing behind your drunken subordinates, silently mouth "no" at the bartender and shake their heads. 

Jake slides onto the barstool next to you, a bottle of Brooklyn Lager in hand, and you smile. This feels familiar, like that night three years ago. 

"You getting déjà vu, too?" Jake asks, looking at the bottle and then at you. 

"Little bit." You hold up your thumb and forefinger maybe a quarter of an inch apart, and Jake -- suit jacket gone and tie stuffed in a pocket, sleeves rolled up and shirt unbuttoned to mid-sternum -- grins the big, dopey smile that you like best on him, the one that makes the edges of his eyes crease. 

He sets down his almost-empty bottle on the bar and sets his hand on your leg, his right palm on your left thigh, hidden from the view of your squad and his colleagues by the bar and his body. "Come home with me," he says, and his eyes are bright from the incandescent light above your head. You feel his hand, heavy and warm on your leg, and you shiver slightly, looking at him through your lashes. 

His gaze is steady, and that smile of his is fading into something earnest and serious. Your heart races. "No leaving without a word this time, though," he adds softly, dragging his thumb along the seam that runs up the inside of your pant leg. 

"Okay," you say, voice breathy. "Let's go." 

His expression shifts into something hot and filled with desire, and he nods once before signaling the other bartender for your tabs. 

You take a cab back to his place, the lights of the bridge flitting past and casting strange shadows. You don't notice; Jake's hand is on your leg, Jake's mouth is on your neck, and you're trying to keep your response modest for the sake of the cabbie in the front seat. 

"He's seen way worse than this, Santiago," Jake murmurs into your ear, his lips a vibrating buzz against the shell. It makes you shiver. You turn your head and kiss him, his mouth opening to the touch of your tongue. He tastes like beer and that wildness you've always associated with him, something you can't quite identify. 

You don't stop touching each other all the way into his bed. 

True to your word, you stay the night and let him buy you breakfast and walk you back to your apartment. When he kisses you on the stoop of your place, he says, "I want to see you again," against your mouth, and then pulls back to search your face. 

His expression is so serious, tinged with nerves and worry and something else, and your knees shake a little because, man, that's _real_. You swallow and nod, unsure if you could answer with your voice and have it be steady. 

He grins, his expression shifting slowly until it reaches his eyes. It's dazzling, and you can't look away. "Dinner tomorrow? I'll text you." 

"Yeah," you manage, and then fumble for your keys. He tips your chin up one more time and kisses you like you're in some kind of movie, and you know because you swear your heart stops for a minute, like the world just ends for the span of that kiss. He pulls back, and the traffic noises return, and you blink owlishly at him as he pulls away. 

"Tomorrow," he repeats, quietly emphatic, and then releases your hands slowly, jogging off before you can even think to reply. 

Dinner the next night becomes dessert at his place -- spoiler alert: you're his dessert, and orgasms are yours -- becomes brunch at the Dominican place by his apartment, becomes spending the afternoon walking through Prospect Park while holding hands. You go to bed that night with your skin tingling from the sun and from the memory of him. 

He accidentally-on-purpose bumps into you after work and you two walk across the Brooklyn Bridge together, holding hands, talking about your day. (You're halfway across the bridge when he sheepishly admits he circled your building five times waiting for you to come out. The guard made him show off his badge, which was, in his words, "The best thing ever.") He stays over, steals one of your brother's t-shirts and a pair of your sweatpants -- the legs come to mid-calf on him, though Uniqlo marketed them as unisex, and you burst into bright laughter at the sight of him shirtless and in your too-short Keith Haring-print sweats -- and curls around you like a vine around a trellis. 

Several days later, you show up at his office this time. A few of the other Special Agents give you a look as you make your way to Jake's desk. 

"Special Agent Peralta," you greet, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice. 

"Well, well, To what do I owe this pleasure?" He's too cocky by half, and he smooths down his tie with more than a little self-assuredness. 

You hand him the file folder you're holding. "I've been sent by the squad to ask for federal help on this one. We think Jonny Manzoni and his crew are going to try and ship product to Philly in three days' time. The intel is good, from a reliable CI we have on the inside. Since Manzoni's got ties to some of the remaining Five Families players, we figured we'd do you guys a solid on this one." You're standing at parade rest and watching as Jake flips through the file, and _man_ this is surreal, especially as your hands were on those shoulders not 36 hours ago, your mouth on that mouth. 

He snaps the file shut. "Let me run this up the flagpole, see what they say, ok?" 

You nod. "Should I…?" 

His expression softens. "Yeah, sit tight." He gestures at the chair by his desk, and you nod and take it, pulling out your phone once he's away. 

Three days later, the Manzoni operation goes down without a hitch. The perps are in booking, and the feds are interrogating and cutting deals as needed. It's just past midnight, and you're in your blue NYPD windbreaker, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Jake, beside you, is in his FBI jacket and pulling off his shoulder holster. 

"I'm starving," he says.

"You're always hungry." 

He looks at you a beat too long. "Come on, let's get something to eat." 

You hesitate, then dip your chin in a nod, and that's how you find yourself at a scrubby courthouse diner at one in the morning. The black and white subway tile and 50s style counter with rotating stools would be a gimmick if it wasn't so obviously genuine. Weirdly, the place _feels_ like Jake in some way you can't articulate. 

"I love this place," Jake declares. The waitress sets down the biggest plate of food in front of him -- eggs and bacon and pancakes. For you, she brings your croque monsieur and your coffee. 

"Somehow, I'm not surprised." You pour in creamer and stir, the cloud billowing out until it colors the entire contents of the mug. 

"My mom used to bring me to diners like this, sometimes," he continues, ignoring you. He talks between bites of food. It should disgust you, but he almost never talks about his childhood, so you listen. "If she was working late and had to bring me with her, she'd wake me up and we'd go to a diner a lot like this near the hospital." He cut into his pancakes. "She'd have tea and maybe a sandwich--" he gestures at what you're having with his fork. "And let me get pancakes. And hot cocoa, if it was snowing." He swallowed a particularly large mouthful. "In high school, I started getting the coffee, too. Mom said it would stunt my growth but didn't fight me." 

"You probably didn't need the extra boost, no," you say, hands wrapped around the warm mug.

"No, not with my sugar intake where it was," Jake replies cheerily. 

"When did you stop? Meeting her for midnight meals, I mean." 

He chews on a strip of bacon thoughtfully. "Around the first year I made detective. When I was on patrol, I got the night shift, and she was on swing, so we'd meet in between. When I wasn't in constant danger anymore, she decided to transfer to a hospital on Long Island." 

You swallow your immediate reaction and take a long sip of coffee. It's a little burned but you're not really tasting it anyway. "I'd like to meet her. Someday." 

Jake nods, taps his fingers on the formica tabletop. "I think she'd like you." 

You get overwhelmed by some emotion, then, something you're not sure you can (or, more honestly, willing to) quite name. "I think I'd like her, too." 

Kylie is exactly zero help, as you learn when you call her to talk through this.

"How's the sex, though?" 

You roll your eyes and rummage through your cabinets, looking for something crunchy. "Kylie, c'mon, that's not why I called."

"Too bad, it's what I'm asking. No sage advice until you dish." 

You sigh and grab the flavorless water crackers from your last wine-and-cheese-for-moi party. Which, upon reflection, was before you went to the conference in DC two and a half months ago -- no wonder these are stale. You chew on them anyway. "It's good," you say at least. "Really good," you add, and it feels good to be honest. You feel a smile spread across your face slowly, and you set down the box. 

You can practically hear Kylie smirk on the other end of the line. "Did the earth move?" 

You laugh. "It flipped upside down and exploded." You have to pull your phone away because Kylie starts shouting delightedly at you.

That night, Jake comes over and you make microwave popcorn. The two of you watch that Nicolas Cage movie where he and Angelina Jolie steal cars. You start making out before the final, plot-important whatever and end up missing it entirely, but it doesn't matter because he carries you to your bed and pulls off your clothes and fucks you with your hands over your head. He tastes like salt and butter and something else you don't want to identify, not yet. 

**the epiphany**

You spend every other weekend with him, at your place or his. It's a miracle you haven't run into Gina or Boyle, thank god. Rosa sends you a mysterious text that just reads, "Cool," which makes you wonder if she's seen the two of you around or something. You're honestly okay with it if she has, given that you _still_ don't know where her apartment is. 

You're making coffee in the morning and Jake is checking his email on his phone when you ask, "Hey, does Charles know about us?" 

Jake pauses and sets his phone on your dining table, face down. "Does he know that we're…?" You can't quite read his expression. 

"Sleeping together." You frown when the words come out of your mouth, shaking your head. "Dating," you say again, and _that one_ feels more right, not perfect but better. 

Jake grins, the lines at the edges of his eyes appearing. It makes your heart skip a beat, like a damn cliche. "Charles -- and so Gina and the others -- only know I'm seeing someone. I, uh." He takes on a sheepish expression. "I didn't want to tell them until you wanted to." 

You pour out two coffees -- milk for you, cream and two sugars for him, the heathen -- and bring over the mugs. You set them down (coaster and doily, because you're civilized) and let him pull you into his lap. You tap him on the chin, right where it's clefted. "Boyfriend," you declare, and you feel your nose crinkle. 

He kisses that spot. "God, that's cute," he says. "I have such a cute girlfriend." 

"We sound twelve." 

"Have I _ever_ pretended to be otherwise?"

"Point taken." 

You tell Kylie about this while you tidy your apartment, dusting knick-knacks and tchotchkes with an old t-shirt you've deemed a rag. 

She laughs at you. "Sounds like he's the one," Kylie says.

You freeze and pull your phone away from your year and look at it for a long moment, then glance around your apartment. You think about waking on your couch, with a crick in your neck and a hell of a wine hangover, Jake as your blanket, the day after a particularly tough case involving a city councilman. You think about leaning on the counter of your pass-through and watching as Jake carefully cooked you both dinner one Friday night. You think about watching _Law & Order_ reruns on TNT on Sunday afternoons, his fingers toying with the errant strands of your hair that fall out of your ponytail. You think about those same fingers curling inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and you blow out a long breath.

_Oh no,_ you think. 

"Ames?" comes Kylie's voice, tinny and muffled from the speaker. "Amy?" 

"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, I'm still here." 

"Sounds like I caught you off-guard there." 

"Little bit," you respond, voice wry.

"What are you gonna do about it?" 

"I don't know," you answer honestly, and she hums understandingly in your ear.

The moment comes a few weeks later. You're seated on the kitchen counter, and he is very carefully wrapping a dinosaur-print adhesive bandage around your fingertip, a Neosporin tube capped and cast off to your left. You've burned your hand draining the pasta for dinner, and Jake pulled out a first-aid kit you didn't expect him to have in order to treat you.

"You have dinosaur Band-Aids?" you ask, because of course you have to. 

"Regular ones are so boring," he replies, checking over the rest of your hand for burns or scrapes. "They're always beige. I'm not beige. You're not beige. Why pretend?" 

You feel that time-lapse photography burst of fondness for him right then, and your mouth gets ahead of your brain again. "I love you," you hear yourself say, before you can Amy it up and overthink it. 

Jake goes still, looks up and meets your eyes. He simply looks at you, and you feel that urge to babble come up, the one you haven't felt since you earned your stripes -- okay, chevrons, whatever -- and felt more comfortable talking to Captain Holt about work stuff. "I mean, you're an FBI agent and you're almost forty--"

"Hey," he chides, but there's this _light_ in his face, this smile spreading across his features, and your stomach drops out.

You steamroll on. "And you have _dinosaur print_ band-aids, and I'm still the worst cook, I can't even drain pasta without hurting myself--" 

He kisses you then, pushing your knees apart and tilting his head up to press his mouth against yours. You lean into the kiss, your knees around his waist and your fingers tufting his hair, and just like always it doesn't feel like _enough_ somehow. 

He runs his hands up your thighs, pulls you closer, and suddenly you're off the counter, and he's walking you to the bedroom. You wrap your legs fully around him and pull him closer, until there's no room between your bodies except for clothing, and that has to go immediately. 

The entire world suddenly tilts and you realize you've been dropped (rather unceremoniously, you will argue later) onto the bed, legs and arms splayed out in every direction. "Jake!" 

He ignores you and reaches back between his shoulders to tug up his t-shirt. "How," he starts, and pulls off the shirt, tossing it aside. "Did I end up," he adds, unbuttoning his fly and kicking off his pants. "With _such_ an incredible," he continues, and you're distracted by the sight of him, so familiar and yet still so enticing. "Intelligent, ambitious--"

"You forgot 'beautiful,'" you interrupt, grinning. He's got his fingers curled into the waistband of your slacks, and he's tugging them off of you.

"I was gonna get to it eventually." He presses his lips to the inside of your leg and you bite your lip. "Say it again." 

"What?" 

He levels a flat look at you and your grin widens. "I love you," you repeat, and it's like fireworks inside your chest, the same ones you see reflected in his eyes, and when he kisses you it's goddamn _electric_. 

He kisses you through your first orgasm, kisses you through every _yes_ that comes out of your mouth when he's hot and hard and thrusting into you, kisses you through your second, kisses his name out of your mouth, kisses you through the aftershocks and the afterglow, kisses you until you feel ready to melt into the mattress, every muscle going limp. Only then does he stop kissing you, this thumb tracing the curve of your hip bone. 

"I think the world ended," you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. 

You feel him smile into your arm, the slight press of his nose and brow into your shoulder. "Good, I was really trying that time." 

"Jesus, you mean you _weren't_ trying before?" 

"God, shut up, Amy." 

You ignore him. "And here I was bragging to my friends about you." 

"Friend, singular. You have one friend." With obvious effort, he pushes himself up onto his elbow. You look up into his face. He's smirking, and you'd smack the look off his face if you could find the energy for it. "You were bragging about me? 'Cause I'm a sex god?" 

You roll your eyes. "Men." 

He grins. "You totally were! I totally am!" He looks triumphant. 

"Jake--" 

He presses a finger to your lips. "For the record," he adds, his expression sliding into that same lit-from-within look he'd had earlier, when all of this started. "I love you, too." 

It's like there's no air in the room suddenly. "Oh," you breathe. "Really?" 

"Yeah," he says, and pulls you in close, tucks his chin over your shoulder. "I really do." 

In May, Gina sends you a Facebook invite to Jake's birthday party. You usually ignore Gina's invites -- they're almost always to dance expos in the Bronx -- but you hit "Maybe" on this one. 

When you arrive, the party is in swing, the back open-air patio reserved for the crew. You spot Terry first because _duh_ , he's a foot taller than everyone else -- or at least it feels like it. Jake is saying something as you approach.

"...she said she's running late but that she'll be here," he is insisting. 

Next to him, you see Gina roll her eyes. "Give it up, Jake, she doesn't exist. We all know about your 'girlfriend' in Canada." She even includes the air quotes. 

Before Jake can respond, Terry spots you. "Amy!" There's a rush of hugs as a bunch of Nine-Niners embrace you. You make eye contact with Jake over Boyle's shoulder. He's grinning, bottle halfway to his lips. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he shakes his head silently, clearly amused. 

"Santiago," Rosa greets, and then thumps you on the shoulder. You don't wince -- she hits about as hard as Javier, your third brother -- and, instead, hug her. 

"You look great, Rosa," you say, and grin a little bit at Rosa's discomfort -- only because you know that you'd hit the sweet spot of hug durations, and that if she'd really hated it, she'd have sidestepped your hug entirely. 

"Look, Jake, Amy is here," Terry says, pointing. 

"I see that," Jake says, and you can hear the laughter he's suppressing in his voice. 

"Happy birthday, Jake," you say, approaching him. You reach into your purse and hand him a wrapped present, shaped roughly like a cube.

"Sweet," he says, setting the bottle down and shaking the gift. "Can I open it?" 

"If you want." 

"Oh, I do want," he replies, and tears into the wrapping paper. You congratulate yourself on not wincing at him ruining a solid 20 minutes of your work. He pulls open the plain white box inside and you rock back on your heels nervously. 

The others ooh and aah when they see it: a Nakatomi Plaza Security mug. You don't really hear them, because Jake is looking at you like you're the only person in the bar. 

"This is amazing." He raises an eyebrow at you. "How am I supposed to top this for your birthday?"

You shrug, falsely casual. "I dunno, but I'm sure you'll think of something."

He steps closer to you. "Thank you," he says sincerely, and kisses you in front of the crowd. There's a number of catcalls around you, and when he steps away, he keeps his arm around your waist. "Everyone, I believe you've met my girlfriend, Amy?" 

"Told ya," Rosa says, smirking over the rim of her cocktail glass. 

"Ugh," Gina groans, and hands Rosa a twenty dollar bill. 

Boyle whoops. Even Holt nods in a seemingly-approving manner.

Terry points at both of you in turn. "Seriously? For real? Like, real-real?" 

You look up at Jake, your shoulders brushing, the warmth of fondness spreading to your fingertips and toes. "Yeah, it's real," you say, and thread your fingers in with his.

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of notes! Feel free to ask me more about this fic in comments, too -- I deleted a few scenes and stuff. 
> 
> Sooo I went back to my (porno) roots on this one. I figured since I _started_ the year with Jake and Amy banging, I may as well end the year on a similar note. BOOKENDS, PEOPLE. CIRCLE OF LIFE. Or fic, or banging, whatever.
> 
> The line about the earth moving / it flipping upside-down and exploding is one I remember first reading in [this X-Files fic](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/889119/1/A-Mother-s-Eyes) back when I was 14, in 2003, and which I only found again thanks to some careful (and skillful) Google searching. Here's the exact exchange, for posterity -- slash, if the fic is ever lost to the aether:
>
>> "I'm sorry, Mom. I don't understand."
>> 
>> "Was it good? Did the earth move?"
>> 
>> She's bright red now. Her face matches her hair. "Mother! How can you say that?"
>> 
>> "I'm sorry, dear, but you have the look of a woman who's been well-laid, more than once, and very recently."
>> 
>> Her mouth gapes like a guppy's.
>> 
>> "It's okay, Dana. You're a grown woman and I can't say I don't approve of your choice. But it damn well took you two long enough to get around to it."
>> 
>> She collapses into a chair, staring at me. After a moment, her blush recedes and she smiles. "Yeah, Mom, the earth moved. I think it rotated a hundred and eighty degrees on its axis, the wrong way, and then exploded."
>> 
>> I dish out the spaghetti and smile. "Good." 
> 
> The reference for Amy falling asleep on top of Jake at the end of "the sex" was this photo (NSFW, I'm not even a little bit kidding): [[photo]](http://kasuchi.tumblr.com/post/102156741203). 
> 
> The bar Major Crimes and the feds drink at is based on [Ward III](https://foursquare.com/wardlll) in TriBeCa.
> 
> The expression here: "He looks at you, then, a sideways tilt of his head that catches the shadows in the light of the hotel bar." Well, it was hard for me to describe. It's [this expression](http://kasuchi.tumblr.com/post/105839067008) here, lighting and posture and all. 
> 
> The diner that Jake and Amy go to is based on [George's](https://foursquare.com/v/georges-new-york-new-york-ny/49c02175f964a5204b551fe3), down by Wall Street, aka a place I love in spite of itself. It's not great but it's _so good_. 
> 
> Sex math! I'm 201 lbs and can squat 165 lbs pretty comfortably, and I'm a lady! Dudes start with more muscle, and someone Amy's size is probably 130 lbs max, meaning even at 5'6" she could be carried by a dude roughly Jake's size without too much trouble. (Or, if you're horrible, like me, fucked against a wall/door/shower tile.) Note also that she wouldn't be deadweight, meaning carrying her would be easier than it sounds. ~The more you know!~
> 
> I debated about the "love" thing but fuck it, it's the end of the year, why the hell not. 
> 
> Also, in 2014, I wrote 100,000 words of fanfiction for _just_ this fandom alone. That's....wow. i've never written that much in a year before. So, uh, thanks for being on this awesome ride with me, everyone! Here's to hoping 2015 is just as fruitful :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Be Kind, Please Rewind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996718) by [Kasuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi)




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